


First Things First

by a_mind_at_work (Madame_Marauder)



Series: Beli3ver 'verse [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, But they haven't even met yet so just chill, Elams is endgame for this verse, F/F, F/M, M/M, Other, This is just setup so its p short, slow burn i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 08:21:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11824773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madame_Marauder/pseuds/a_mind_at_work
Summary: Alex Harrison is a writer. Alexander Hamilton is fired up.John Laurence wants to be a doctor. John Laurens is the master of his own sea.Lizzy Skylar is an optimist. Elizabeth Schuyler is a dove.Alternatively, three high school juniors turn sixteen.





	1. I'ma say all the words inside my head; I'm fired up and tired of the way that things have been

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, gals, and nonbinary pals. This is a bit of a half-baked idea I came up with while trying to get over writer's block on the thing I started writing to get over writer's block.
> 
> If you want to see more in this one, tell me!

   Alexander Hamilton’s dying breath came along with the words, “Take your time, Betsey, I'll see- see you-” Fuck, no no no, I love you, I'll see you soon enough, wait, no, I need more time, I can't run out of time yet, I have so much more to say, so much more to-

 

    “-see, I know it's scary, but it really is better once your memories are back,” Alexander Harrison’s foster mother says, clapping him on the shoulder. “And you don't have to necessarily be anything better than you were before- I know George has mentioned this to you on multiple occasions, I just wanted to say it again.”

     Yes, George had mentioned it. Obsessively. Alex was beginning to think his foster father might have known who he was, that there was some attempt at foreshadowing there, a warning.

     He ignored it.

     Completely.

     Because for as wonderful as the Warners were, Alex still had this thirst to go out and achieve, to rise up. He'd said that once, in front of George, and managed to set him off laughing.

     There was  _ definitely _ a past life thing behind that one.

     “I know,” Alex replies. “But that doesn't mean I'm going to calm down on the financial mess we call America. Honestly, it's a disaster.”

     Martha sighs fondly. “I won't disagree with you there. And h-”

     “Happy birthday,  _ mon ami _ !” yells his foster sibling, streaking into the kitchen. “Ooh, pancakes.”

     Alex raises an eyebrow. “Morning, Gil.”

    The Frenchperson grins at him, their ponytail bouncing. “See, this is why you're my favorite. You can pronounce my names right.”

     “Marie-Paul Joseph Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier,” Alex intones as dramatically and pretentiously as possible, sticking his nose in the air, and all three laugh.

 

     “Alex?”

     He glances up to see George just outside his doorway. “Yeah?”

     George fidgets with his phone case and glances at the floor. “I, ah, I wanted to give you a word of warning.”

      “I don't know what school told you, but whatever it is, I didn't start it. Well, probably.” Maybe. 50/50 chance, to be honest.

       His foster father shakes his head. “Not school. Just… get some sleep, don't try and stay awake. Your memories will come if you want them to or not, and if you're asleep it's supposedly better. Speaking from experience here.”

      “I'll sleep eventually, don't worry,” Alex shrugs, turning back to his laptop. Required two pages, double spaced? Ha. He was on page seven, mostly because it irritated his History teacher.

      “Hurry up with your homework, the wifi goes off at 9.”

      He nods absently, his fingers still dancing over the keyboard, and George tries not to laugh at the delayed, “Hey, wait!”

 

      First things first, then, he thinks as he finds himself sitting bolt upright in bed, a vicious phantom pain in his side.

      He was Alexander Hamilton.

_ Bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman,  _ his brain provides unhelpfully.  _ Arrogant, immigrant, obnoxious, loudmouthed bother. Short-tempered creator of the Coast Guard, founder of the New York Post. Phenomenon. Icarus. Treasury Secretary. _

__ And he still has his words, a realization that sends a shiver of relief and delight down his spine. He has his words. Everything will be alright, he can write.

      Thirdly, the constant stream of ambition and passion has become a waterfall, twining around him like the comforting embrace of an old friend. He will have to watch that this life, tame it into something good and creative instead of the devastating hurricane that he'd let it become last time.

      Hurricane, he snorts at. He had been called a hurricane, had written his way into a metaphorical one and out of a literal one, had had friends and enemies alike describe his office as being one- and he was off topic yet again.

      Onto the next thing, then; the parallels between his two lives are rather strong, though he's had a considerably less devastating childhood, even if he lost his birth parents young- and speaking of parents.

      George was Washington. So much for not being his son, he thinks, and he starts laughing until suddenly enough he's crying, and Martha is in his doorway with George just behind her.

      “Alex, are you okay?” she asks, and shifts as if she doesn't quite know how to react.

     “Yes- no? I don't- Hamilton,” Alexander manages, and swipes at his eyes. Some part of him wants to apologize for George having to see him like this, except it's not the first time he's seen him like this, is it, as either Alex or Hamilton?

      A hand lands on his shoulder and he looks up to see George sitting on the edge of his bed. “I know, son. I know. Do you know how a couple of Iowa farmers reacted to their only kid having been George Washington?”

       Alexander hears himself laugh, and his hand aches for a pen and paper. Or a keyboard. Or a pencil, or a quill, or just a marker and his arm. Something.

       That all flies out the window as a realization slams into him, and he's pulled out of his thoughts with a vicious yank. “Oh my god, Lafayette-”

       “Has another two weeks before their Revelation,” George interrupts. “Son, please don't say anything. I know, it's hard. But hey, I kept it together for three years, you can for two weeks.”

       Martha rolls her eyes and tries to not let her gaze linger on the papers scattered across the desk. “I'm just… gonna go… before Gil wakes up and starts prying…”

       Alexander's fingers twitch, and he lets his eyes meander over to the notebooks. If he thought he had a lot to say before- and he did, he most certainly did- then the addition of his memories only added to the whirlwind of thoughts and ideas in his head. So much he didn't say, couldn't say, wanted to say. Some of it he never would, it was irrelevant now, but most of it was applicable to the modern world. Coupled with everything he'd experienced as Alex-

       “And that's the Alex-has-an-idea-and-is-ignoring-you-now face,” sighs George, breaking him out of his thoughts. “Do you want me to let you write?”

       He flushes, but nods. “Yeah. Yeah, probably.”

       George stands with a snort. “Why am I not surprised? Also, you are supremely lucky it's Saturday, because you are  _ not _ staying up all night during the week.”

       “Right,” Alexander agrees, and clicks out his pen.

 

_ First things first, I'mma say all the words inside my head, _

_I'm fired up and tired of the way that things have been._  


	2. Don't you tell me what you think that I could be; I'm the one at the sail, I'm the master of my sea

    “Jack, I have to say, I'm very disappointed in you,” his father says. “You know better than to say things like that. And especially to the son of such an influential man, a lawyer nonetheless! You don't want to ruin your future chances in law, do you?”

    Actually, yes he did. He would be a doctor, damn what anyone else thought. Besides, Howe deserved a lot more than being called out on his bullshit. And the defiance and determination simmering just underneath his skin and waiting on the tip of his tongue is an old and familiar companion, one he quiets in favor of letting remorse take over his features. “No, I don't.”

    His father sighs, and some half-known image suddenly makes him grateful his parents are who they are now instead of who they were. Why? He doesn't remember. Yet.

     “Let's discuss this in the morning,” his mother suggests. “No need to ruin his birthday. Sixteen is just such an important step in life, and I'm sure everyone will be in a better mindset in the morning, anyway.”

     John grits his teeth and sits up straight, listening to his parents bat Harvard and Stanford back and forth between them, debating tuition and programs.

     He excuses himself as quickly as he can, retreating to his room and collapsing onto his bed. “Happy fucking birthday to me,” John tells the turtle-print throw pillow in his window seat. Frances just stares back at him expressionlessly, and he groans. “I'm talking to a pillow, how much sadder does it get?”

     Said pillow gives no reply as he rolls over and pulls out a tattered brochure he'd swiped years ago, back when he was young enough he went with his parents on their business trips.

     The sunlight glints off the windows cheerily in the picture on the front,  _ Columbia University  _ printed across the top of the flyer. He runs his fingers over the spiel he's nearly memorized by now, and mutters it under his breath as almost a prayer as he tucks it away safely and lets himself fall asleep.

      “-alma mater of notable figures such as Alexander Hamilton…”

 

     He bolts up around three, hand pressed to his chest, gasping for air as the vague terror fades. He curls his hands in his sheets and tries to think clearly.

      A non-existent pain lances through his side and John swears under his breath. Fuck. John Laurens, secret lover of Alexander Hamilton, abolitionist, revolutionary, reckless and determined.

     Greatest constant across his lives? He really, really didn't want to go into law or politics. He'd seen his fair share of lawyers and politicians, had known the men who had helped shape the modern systems, and there were maybe three of them that he  _ hadn't  _ wanted desperately to stab. 

     His darling Alexander being chief on that list of three, of course.

     Aaaaaand he’s still helplessly in love with a Founding Father. Of course he is, with his luck they'll be tragically star-crossed lovers across time and space. Romeo and Julian indeed.

      John closes his eyes and tries to think, to plan- he did used to be good at that, didn't he. Right. 

      One; get the needed grades for both law and medicine. Law stuff is just bonus points now, medicine is the important part.

      Two; apply to Columbia. College dreams aside, if Alexander was back then New York City is where he would be headed.

      Three; find his dear boy, if he can.

      There, that's a solid foundation for a plan. Nice and flexible, all things considered.

       It's a second chance, John reflects as his gaze slides to the poster on his wall and he tries not to laugh. He's not throwing away his shot. 

 

_ Second things second, don't you tell me what you think that I could be, _

_I'm the one at the sail, I'm the master of my sea_  


	3. All the hate that you've heard has turned your spirit to a dove

    “Lizzy, help me out here!”

    She shrugs. “Sorry, man. I can't say they're wrong.”

    Herc raises a hand to his chest and mock gasps. “Why Miss Schuyler, I would have thought you would defend my honor!”

    “No such luck, my friend,” she quips as the lunch line starts to move. “It's my birthday, I'm allowed to be lazy. Also, why did you say my name like that? It's Skyl _ ar _ , like a pirate. Not  _ er _ .”

    He freezes for a moment, eyes wide, then shrugs. “I dunno.”

    “Yes you do,” she retorts. “What was that, you're the one who got my name right on the first try in third grade.”

     Her best friend shrugs, but doesn't meet her eyes. His gaze is firmly fixed just above her eyebrows, and it would be convincing if she hadn't seen him bluff their way out of confrontations with school bullies for three-quarters of a decade “Just a slip of the tongue, I guess. You're reading into it.”

     “Herc, I've known you for six years. I know your tells,” she argues. “Come on.”

      They get to the lunchladies and their conversation halts for a moment as the line shuffles along, and once they've punched in their lunch codes Herc turns to her and sighs. “Look, Eliza-”

     “Okay, yeah, what the hell is going on? You never call me Eliza,” she blurts out. “Hercules Meyer-”

      “I'm trying to emphasize this, alright? First off, happy birthday, wheeee you're gonna have a shitload of probably painful memories dumped on you. Secondly, I call you Lizzy or Eliza because it's fucking weird to call you Beth, because that was my wife's nickname. Third, having a Revelation isn't fun, and you're going to see people you knew and not be able to say anything,” he rattles off, and he sets his tray down a lot harder than he needs to.

     She slides into the seat across from him and stares. “Oh. We knew each other, then? Wait, wait, are you saying you recognize me because I was your  _ wife _ ?”

     “Wh- no! No, no, no. I- no, Liz, no. You were my friend’s wife, and that's- that's weird, god, what the hell. Besides, I'm very gay.”

     She nods. “Right. Um, gee, tomorrow's gonna be fun, isn't it? No spoilers, though, I'll find out properly in the morning.”

     Herc nods and stabs at the overcooked school-lunch chicken(?) with a plastic fork.

    “Fucking shady mystery meat,” says a kid behind them. “What you want to bet it's horse meat?”

    “Horse meat actually has some texture to it,” Herc mutters darkly.

 

     “Happy birthday!” exclaims her mother as she walks in the door, and her dad blows a cheap noisemaker. 

     Liz raises an eyebrow. “You're home?”

     “It's your birthday, honey, we're taking the evening off, and your mom's staying home until noon tomorrow,” her dad says with a grin, and she can almost forget Herc’s pessimistic warning about her impending Revelation.

      She's a generally happy person, and relatively calm under most any circumstances. Optimist and pacifist, always looking on the brighter side of things. Whatever happens, Liz tells herself, she won't change much at all. And she believes it- Liz Skylar really couldn't have had that interesting or emotional of  a life, right? So she stands by that particular theory of life

      Until she wakes up at two in the morning with 90-some years of memories from the Revolutionary War. And a kind, loving, reckless, compassionate dead son. And an idiotic cheating wonderful adorable charming passionate genius also-dead husband.

      Eliza wipes her tears and grabs her phone off of the bedside table.

 

**_LizzySky has changed their name to BestofBetsey_ **

_   BestofBetsey: HERCULES MULLIGAN _

_   ActualDisneyPrince: good morning mrs. Hamilton _

_   BestofBetsey: adjskjsjfjsl _

_                          what the hell herc _

_                          what the actual fuck _

_   ActualDisneyPrince: yep _

_                                    thats what i said _

_                                    welcome to the cool kids club i guess _

_   BestofBetsey: oh my god my kids _

_                          pHILIP _

_                         aLEXANDER _

_                          also id say something about how you were friends w Alex _

_                           but like i was (am?) In love w the guy so like _

_   ActualDisneyPrince: oh yeah _

_                                   Alex does feelings so hard im sure he still likes u 2 _

_    BestofBetsey: tru, tru _

_                          oh my god so um _

_                         were getting a new student and im supposed to show em around _

_                          student council and stuff, you know _

_    ActualDisneyPrince: yeah _

_                                     y _

_    BestofBetsey: his name is John Laurence _

_    ActualDisneyPrince: I… _

_                                     shit son _

 

__ Eliza raises an eyebrow at the phone screen and switches chats to a fresh one, with an unsaved contact number. The number of her former husband's lover, and her own would-have-been… something. He'd died before that particular conversation could be held.

 

_ Third things third, send a prayer to the ones up above  _

_All the hate that you've heard has turned your spirit to a dove_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so here's the last of the introductions, let me know what you think. I'm sorry John and Eliza's chapters are so short, it's really hard for me to get inside their heads. That's my main goal for this verse; get in Eliza's head.
> 
> So the chapters are mostly gonna be from John and Alexander's POV, bc I never do what I set out to. 
> 
> My tumblr, as always: @discount-satan

**Author's Note:**

> Right, be sure to leave kudos/comments if you want more from this verse.
> 
> My Tumblr: @discount-satan
> 
> Also, as a side note; Re-3 (Rewind, Reprise, Repeat) is NOT abandoned, I just have absolutely no inspiration for it at the moment. Quality takes time, and I appreciate all your lovely comments!
> 
> Also, also, I'm stupidly proud of the verse name. Get it? Because it's OT3?  
> Hahaha yeah I'll see myself out.


End file.
